


fall apart; fall together

by piecesofgold



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Show Only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8695213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piecesofgold/pseuds/piecesofgold
Summary: Theon Greyjoy stood before Winterfell's weirwood tree and called Sansa Stark his wife two years ago.





	

**Author's Note:**

> thansa is a v great ship that deserves better writing than whatever the hell this is.
> 
> for jasi.

Like every morning, he wakes up screaming.

(Not a scream, quite. It reaches his throat and escapes as a gasp, heart pounding and hands shaking-)

"It's alright," the figure beside him mumbles, hand already on the crook of his elbow. "No one's here."

She sounds exhausted, and Theon knows she's been staring at the ceiling fighting sleep herself.

Sansa pulls him down next to her, pulls his arm around her waist, twines her fingers with his.

Theon breathes in her auburn hair, fear slowly ebbing away. Neither of them sleep; instead watching the dawn break through the window.

Theon Greyjoy stood before Winterfell's weirwood tree and called Sansa Stark his wife two years ago.

It has been four years since they'd gripped hands and jumped off a stone wall.

\--

Negotiation with Daenerys Targaryen had been long and perilous, hardly helped by the fact she and Jon refused to agree on anything, even after the Wights had been defeated.

Finally, _finally_ , though, a treaty was drawn up; The South renounced all claim to the The North, declaring it an independent kingdom, trade being allowed between the two.

The Dragon Queen was visibly unhappy with this. "You would have two monarchs, Lord Snow? A Queen in The South and a King in The North?"

It's quiet for a long moment before Jon responds. "I have no desire to be King in The North, You Grace," he says carefully. "Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa."

The gasps and objections from the court that follow are barely heard from Sansa. She's more surprised than she ought to be, but still. Her brother just renounced his crown to her; she is permitted a moment of surprise.

\--

Jon was less than happy when news reached him of the marriage arrangement.

"So you disagree. And are you saying that as my brother or my military commander?"

"He betrayed Robb!" Jon's fury is evident.

"Did Theon drive a knife through Robb's heart?" Sansa had snapped back, set her quill down and rose from her desk. "Theon did not kill our brothers. Ram-" she clears her throat. "Ramsey killed Rickon. Bran and Arya are home. We need alliances in the South - the Martell and Tyrell's are dead, the Greyjoy's are allied with the Queen-"

" _I_ could marry-"

"-the Queen?" Sansa almost laughs. "Jon, I mean you no disrespect, but the Queen will hardly marry the man who relinquished his power in the North - a bastard at that." There's no sting in her voice, but Jon still grinds his teeth. "Theon was raised with me. I trust him. If I am to marry anyone, it will be him. Only him."

It's a small ceremony at the weirwood tree, Jon gives her away with only minor daggers at Theon, Sansa's heart hurts because _this is too familiar I can't breathe_ -

Theon takes her hands, and she knows he feels it too. His eyes tell her _this will be different_.

Sansa smiles at him as the Septon clears his throat. _I know_.

\--

Arya is not the little girl Sansa remembers. There is steel in her eyes that hadn't been there before, a calmness that's almost unnerving. She's grown taller as well, leaner. She is twenty years old, a woman grown. But on rare, rare occasions, a giggle will escape her, or she'll make a snark remark that will make Jon and Theon choke on their wine.

It's strikes Sansa, once, that this is what Lyanna may have been like.

Bran - Bran is so big Sansa sometimes doesn't recognise him. The round faced little boy she remembers is ten-and-nine, a man grown. He's quiet, wary, spends most days wheeling round the gardens. Meera Reed tends to him most of the time. Arya sits with him a lot, too, sharpening that sword of hers whilst their brother reads. They both seem to like the quiet.

"The Reed girl," Theon looks up from his trade reading one afternoon, frowning. "Meera. Do you think - she and Bran -"

"Betroth them," Sansa finishes, meeting her husbands eyes. "I have thought about it. He's - fond of her. And she of him."

"Lord Reed ought to be consulted." Sansa sees his mind whirring, the way it used to. Her heart aches with fondness. "Greywater Watch is not an easy place to find, so..."

"Meera is due to visit her lord father shortly, I believe. She can take a letter for us," Sansa had answered.

That is not how it comes about, because of course it isn't.

Howland Reed and his lady wife Jyana arrive on horseback a week thereafter. There is no warning of their arrival save for Meera's sudden cry one afternoon before racing to the courtyard to throw herself into her mothers arms, sobbing.

"When is it you were last at Winterfell, my lady?" Sansa enquirers to Jyana, much later that night. The Lady of Greywater Watch has joined her in the courtyard, seemingly also unable to sleep.

Jyana smiles, and Sansa realises how much of her is in Meera. "Never had the honour, Your Grace. Crannogmen are rather reclusive. I confess, I was surprised when my husband suggested we come here."

Lady Reed was beautiful, once. Sansa can see it in her kind lined face, in the grey lines of her chestnut brown hair.

Sansa lets out a shaky breath. "It's so quiet here, now. Your daughter, she's...been a wonder to my brother, Bran."

"Bran is your heir, is he not?" Jyana doesn't look at her, stares out into the night.

Something burns in Sansa's throat. Bran had been named her heir after she had wed Theon, after it had become clear they would never have children of their own.

(Sansa had gone as far as to suggest telling people she was barren, but Theon had quashed that immediately. "They will find out eventually, my love. Men always do.")

"He is," she answers. "Which is why my husband and I hoped you would accept our request to betroth your daughter to Bran."

Jyana Reed closes her eyes, as if letting Sansa's words wash over her. "Howland agreed to the match long before we came here," she says quietly. "And when I saw my girl with your brother, I agreed too. But we have lost our only son and heir, Your Grace. When Meera weds your brother, Howland and I will be the last Reeds of Greywater."

Sansa is aware of Jojen Reed, Meera's younger brother. Bran has only mentioned him once in passing, as if it hurts to talk of him.

Lady Jyana rises, a sad smile on her lips. "Shall we depart, Lady Sansa? I do believe we have a wedding to plan on the morrow."

\--

Bran and Meera are wed the week the Godswood pools freeze over.

They prepare for winter as best they can; Winterfell is still broken in some places and blackened in others, the restoration taking more time than Sansa and Theon had ever imagined, needing more gold than they have to spare. The glass gardens have been repaired, and the stables have been given a new roof, but the armory still leans to one side, and parts of the Great Keep are still ruined and charred. Workers bring huge chunks of stone in from the quarries in the hills, and masons carefully carve them into bricks, and Theon paces the yard as he frets about the cost, as he worries that the monthly taxes will not cover the losses, thinned down after so many of the smallfolk marched south with Robb and never returned, after more were killed by Theon's raiders and Ramsay's fires.

"It will be enough," Sansa assures him, squeezing his hand. "We need to be careful, but it will be enough."

Sansa runs the household as well as her mother did in her fathers place, never falters or fails (save for when she and Theon are alone, when he wipe her tears and she soothes his fears). Her priority is the smallfolk, mainly the winter town. White Harbour aids in enough food and drink and men to restore their ruined houses, Lord Edmure sends up material for cloaks and clothes from Riverrun, Maester Tarly gives the sickened what he hopes are enough potions to last out the winter. Jon continues negotiations with the South (Sansa will never admit it, but she breathes easier each time he rides home in one piece and not in a bag of charred bones).

\--

"Meera is with child," Sansa tells him one morning.

Theon's hand running through her auburn hair stops to rest at her shoulder, digesting the information. "You're certain?"

"I am," she rolls over, rests her arms on his chest and her chin atop her arms.

"Then I owe congratulations to my good-brother," Theon says fondly, brushes his wife's hair behind her ear. She laughs, and it's never broke his heart before as it does now.

Sansa wants children, Theon knows. He does, too. But he can't now. Ramsey took that choice away from him.

 _And Sansa gave up that choice for my sake_.

"What are you thinking about?" Sansa interrupts.

He can't lie to her. "You. Children."

She sighs sadly. "Theon -"

"You could have had any Southern lord, could have had any number of children with him - yet you wed a eunuch instead."

"I didn't _want_ some bloody Southern lord." Sansa takes his hand and twines their fingers together. "I want _you_."

Theon tries to smile. "You want children, too."

"Almost four years of marriage, and only know you ask this?" She bites her lip, not meeting his eyes. "After - after Ramsey -" she chokes on the name, "the thought of...having someone _inside_ me - I couldn't bear it. And what sort of Lord - what sort of _man_ \- wants a wife like that?" She spits the words, and he feels her tremble, in fear or anger he cannot say.

She eventually meets his eyes long enough to form a sentence. "I love you. I love you enough to not need or want any children."

Theon cannot find words other than "I love you, too."

\--

Winter brings with it storms and snow and death and, mainly, cold. Food and wood is rationed, servants mostly live in the castle, every other day there is a funeral until it's too cold to even take the dead out.

It's snows more days than it doesn't, pyres being burned for the dead on the rare occasion the snowfall stops. Theon helps light them.

Meera and Bran's little boy - Jojen, his name is Jojen Stark - is nearing his third name day. He's a small thing, reminding Sansa and Arya so much of Rickon their hearts ache.

In the case of her sister, Sansa stopped persisting Arya wed years ago. Arya is six-and-twenty now, and wields a sword better than most of Sansa's Queensguard. She often joins Jon visiting the Wall, taking provisions and training new recruits.

Sansa is eight-and-twenty, Queen of eight years, when a man on a dying horse rides through a storm to the gates of Winterfell.

He's pulled through the gates and carried to the maester, near frostbitten. Word is sent to the Queen, and for one mad moment she thinks Robert Baratheon's ghost has arrived at the castle.

Arya bursts into Sansa's chamber later that evening, face flushed with cold and voice alarmingly high pitched. She only catches a name in her sisters babble.

"Arya, slow down - who is Gendry?"

Incredibly, Arya's blush deepens. "King Robert's bastard son."

 _That explains his likeness_. "You know him?"

Arya sinks into a chair, and Sansa sees the tears unshed in her brown eyes. "When - when father died. He - we were to go to the Wall, but the Brotherhood, and the red woman -" she inhales sharply. "It's been _years_ , but -"

 _Gods be good_ , Sansa wants to laugh, _she is in love_. Arya doesn't continue, so Sansa reaches across the desk for her hand. "Go to him," she urges her sister. "No doubt he has missed you to."

When Arya flees, Sansa draws up more parchment.

\--

She calls Theon and Jon to her a week afterwards.

"You'll legitimise a Baratheon bastard - a House you hate, I might add," Theon looks quizzically at her over the parchment calling Gendery a Baratheon. "But you won't call your own brother a Stark?"

Jon, at the other end of the table, coughs loudly. "Her brother can speak for himself, Greyjoy, and it might be he doesn't want to be legitimised." He turns to Sansa, voice softer than it was at her husband. "Don't repeat this, but he's got a point. The Baratheon's gave us nothing but trouble."

"The _Lannisters_ gave us nothing but trouble," Sansa corrects them both, plucking the parchment from her husbands hands. "Gendry isn't a Lannister, nor is he his father. He's a blacksmith and good man. He cares for Arya, and she for him." She very pointedly ignores a huff from Jon. "I won't give it to him if he doesn't wish it," she continues, sealing the parchment with the Stark sigil. "But should he ever ask for Arya's hand, it doesn't seem unreasonable that their children to have a noble name."

Jon huffs again; Sansa kicks him.

"You truly think they will marry?" Theon asks, climbing into bed beside her.

Sansa wraps her arms around him and settles on his chest, humming thoughtfully. "Arya's not left his side since he arrived, he humours her in everything." She pauses for so long Theon thinks she's fallen asleep. "He knows her better than I do," she whispers, voice so sad Theon's heart aches as he pulls her closer to him.

"Jon may have a thing or two to say to him should he get down on one knee," Theon says dryly, pleased when Sansa begins to giggle.

"Gods, poor Gendry, Jon won't leave him with Arya alone now."

"No doubt our Arya will put him in his place about that, too."

\--

Gendry and Arya _do_ marry, after a year of stubbornness (Gendry) and denial (Arya) and gently encouragement from those unfortunate enough to be around the two at any given point.

They marry in Great Keep, on account of it being too dangerous outside for the ceremony, although Theon had taken it upon himself to paint a weirwood tree on the wall prior to the wedding. Sansa loves him all the more for it, ridiculous as it is.

Later, in the Great Keep, Gendry gazes at Arya with such open fondness Sansa has to down a full cup of wine to prevent herself from doing something ridiculous, like crying.

Theon sees, as always, holding her hand and squeezing it gently through entire night.

\--

Winter lasts eighteen years.

Samwell Tarly sends ravens to the Citadel, opens one of his many books, dips his quill in ink and scrawls _Winter_ : _304AC_ _to_ _322AC_. The longest winter in Westerosi history.

Jojen Stark squints accusingly at the harsh sun, something he hasn't seen a lot of in his twelve years of life. His mother is behind him, fussing with his little brother and sister, his father wheeling himself across the cobbles and smiling in a way Jojen has never seen before.

Before anyone has a chance to get much further, a tiny figure barrels ahead of them.

" _Catelyn_!" Arya shout as her daughter topples headfirst into one of the last piles of fresh snow. Gendry laughs, Arya scolds him with a smile, and little Catelyn squeals in delight.

"The gates are open?" Sansa inquires to no one in particular, holding her husband by the arm.

"Aye, Your Grace," a nearby guard whom Jojen recognises as his nuncle Jon answers. "Smallfolk have been leaving since dawn, not many left."

Aunt Sansa closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, leaning more against Uncle Theon.

Jojen's ten year old sister Jocelyn finally breaks free from Meera's arms, seizing her twin brother by the hand as she runs to the South Gate. Jojen watches in amusement as she and Rickon disappear with his lady mother after them. Sansa presses as a hand to her eldest nephews shoulder. "Go on," she smiles down at him. "It's safe now." He doesn't need telling twice.

Bran frowns as he watched his son follow Rickon and Jocelyn. "Spring is here," he announces.

"Took its time," Arya comments, fond eyes trained to Gendry brushing off Catelyn's sodden dress and cloak.

"I suspect Daenerys will be calling on us soon enough," Sansa offers.

"How do you think our Dragon Queen fared the winter?" Theon asks, face tilted up to the new spring sun.

"Well enough," Jon respons. "She's strong, that one. Not to mention those three dragons keeping her warm."

"She can wait, can she not?" Bran wheels further forward, wanting desperately to join his wife and children.

Sansa smiles at her little brother and sister, a queer feeling twisting in her stomach as she remembers the last time the Starks had stood in the courtyard like this.

Theon senses the change in her mood, takes her hand and pulls her forward to the Godswood. "Aye," he calls after Bran and Jon. "It can wait."

\--

Years and years and years later, when Sansa's hair is more grey than auburn, when Jon and Bran and Theon are long gone, when Arya and Meera have grandchildren, when Winterfell no longer bares the scars of war, Sansa goes to the crypts.

Eddard and Catelyn Stark's bones finally rest here, beside Robb and Rickon and Jon and Bran's. Bran's death still feels like a fresh wound; he was taken ill and gone so suddenly that sometimes Sansa finds herself wondering where he is, tucked away with a book in his lap.

She stops at Lyanna's tomb for a moment, vaguely remembering a story Petyr Baelish had once told her of a tourney and winter roses. She shivers; the draft is fierce down here.

Above, she waves at Jojen sparring with Rickon, sees Jocelyn heavy with child and laughing beside her husband, Catelyn and Robb returning through the Hunters Gate on horseback, spots Gendry's silver head in the armoury with Arya at his side, as usual.

Her bones ache that night as she climbs into an empty bed once again, and as she closes her eyes, she swears she hears her father call her name.

\--

Maester Tarly finds the Queen the next morning, warily calling for the maids and Silent Sisters. He quietly informs Princess Arya before breakfast; she blinks at him, tears spilling, but only nods in response before retreating back into her chambers.

"It's true, then," Jojen says flatly when Sam approaches him in the armoury. "My Aunt is dead?" Sam only nods.

Jojen swallows, not meeting his eyes. "Then I am to be King." Swords clatter in his hands.

Sam is reminded suddenly of Jon, when he was named Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. He places a hand on the Kings arm.

"Aye, you'll be King," he says gently. "As a good a ruler as your Aunt and Uncle and Grandfathers before you. You're a Stark of Winterfell, Lord Jojen." Sam smiles sadly. "And winter is coming."

**Author's Note:**

> I HATED WRITING THIS WITH EVERY FIBRE OF MY BEING I HATE THE ENDING I HATE THE CHARACTERISATION I'M NEVER WRITING AGAI -
> 
> and breathe.
> 
> R + L = J was ignored because the author couldn't be bothered writing it in at 12am.
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated!


End file.
